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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



OTHER BOOKS OF VERSE 

by 

Geo. Klingle 



A SERIES OF BOOKS OF RELIGIOUS 
VERSE 

In the Name of the King 

Make Thy Way Mine 

The Sail Which Hath Passed 

Laus Deo 

Perdita 

The Illumined Cross 

Recompense 

Rest 

Hour by Hour 



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PAGE OF DREAMS 



BY 



GEORGE KLINGLE 






*C.a 




BOSTON: THE GORHAM PRESS 

TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED 



Copyright, 1914, by Richard G. Badger 
All Rights Reserved 



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OCT30I9I4 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A 

©GI.A388179 



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CONTENTS 

Page 

The Inquisitive Prior 1 1 

By Proxy 14 

That Wag of a brother. 15 

Perdita 18 

Robina's Meshes 20 

Ol' Bob an' Me.. 23 

Antonio's Goal 25 

Viola 27 

Ah MeJ 28* 

Make the Best of It 30 

Brebantio's Legacy . . . . \ 31 

Red Ashes 32 

Oh Yes I Knew 34 

Not Blind 35 

The Fisher-Girl's Death Song 36 

Blighted 37 

Bettine 38 

The Voice she Heard 39 

Madaline ..4 ^ 40 

The Gondolier's Lament 41 

Madeline's Garden 42 

The Outcast's Last Dream 43 

The Soul-Flower 44 

The Model 45 

Fair Love 47 

Where Art Thou Sweetheart To-Day 49 



CONTENTS 

Page 

If You Have Loved 50 

Just One 51 

The Cry in the Dark 52 

How Can You Sing? 53 

Abiding Presence 54 

The Voice Midst Crash of the Breakers 55 

The Supreme Voice 56 

The Unbidden Guest 57 

Love's Presence 58 

Vistas of the Past 59 

The Stave that is Lost by the Way 60 

Forsaken Paths 61 

Can Love Forget ? 62 

Their Tribute 63 

The Rosetints of Life 64 

Love 65 

If She Had Never Loved 67 

The St ranger- Guest 68 

Love's Measure . 69 

Our Hidden World 70 

Disenchantment 71 

Memory-Land ....... 72 

The Fact She Knew 73 

Rodrigo's Invocation 74 

The One Symphony 76 

Time's Music 77 

Time's Arrows 78 

My World 79 

The Journey 80 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Passing 81 

The Two Windows 82 

Futurity 83 

Come See My Weedy Garden 84 

A Pageant Ever Wingeth By 86 

Nature's Interludes 87 

Unsatisfied 88 

Joy's Hour 89 

Unforgotten Words 90 

A New Day 91 

Look for the Best 92 

Promise of the Unseen 93 

Joy's Price 94 

Haunted Vistas 95 

The Echo of a Thought 97 

Yonder Old Hill 98 

Words are Immortal 99 

Yours and Mine 100 

The Lion of the Zoo 101 

Joy 102 

The Land of Dreams 104 

Farewell, Sweet Flowers 105 

Love's Creative Dream 106 

Josiah 107 

The Partin' 109 

Mammy's Honey-pot 110 

A New Day in 

At Dawn of the Year 112 

My Birds 113 



THE INQUISITIVE PRIOR 

It was the eve of St. Michaelmas, when, it is said, 
Mortal man may well shrink from the graves of the 

dead 
Or door of the minster, where wraiths will appear 
Of those who must die ere the end of the year. 

It was dead of the night when the Prior, safe and 

sound, 
With a rope round his middle, touched feet to the 

ground 
Where he let himself down by the monastery wall, 
With a titter of mirth, and a shudder withal, 
And a hitch at his sides — if the truth must be told — 
Which resented exploit so heartless and bold. 

Now he tugged at the rope with its knots in the end, 
And bent himself double its length to extend, 
And chuckled half out to the blackness of night 
As he slid himself free, and peered up in delight 
Toward the loop in the wall where he slid himself 

through — 
A shrewd, crafty trick for a good Prior to do. 

But the truth of it was, as every monk knew 
The Prior was but waiting to fill a cold shoe 
When the Abbot should die, but, bless me, you see 
He never would die, I assure you, not he ! — 
Although now of late he had taken to stoop 
And croaked like a throat in the spasms of croup, 
And so, it might be, after all the delay, 
His demise might occur at no distant day. 
ii 



Be that as it would, without waiting for chance 
It was pleasant to strike at the facts in advance, 
And the Prior, conning over the sides of the case, 
Struck a thought, worthy quite of a notable race ; 
"Should his wraith but appear at the minster-door, 
On the eve of St. Michaelmas, what could I ask 



more 



I will go; I will see; I will know in advance;" — 
He crept through the darkness to learn of his chance. 

The lines of the abbey ran zig-zag and gray 

Along the cold sky for a distance away; 

The tangles of ivy asleep in the dark; 

Its mossy, stained battlements silent and stark. 

And over beyond rose the old minster spire 

With its cross on the top like a finger of fire, 

And its outlines of beauty defined on the sky 

As wraith of some spirit which never could die, 

But left to the world the thought it conceived 

In mysteries of stone, carved, circled and wreathed, 

And flung in bold lines to the distant air 

With enchantment unbridled. Slipping round with 

a care, 
By the line of the trees where the shadows were 

deep, 
Came the Prior, all aglow, a secret to reap 
From the deadness of night when all lowlier heads 
Were pillowed at ease in the midst of their beds. 

The pines in the close threw their long shadows 

down, 
And sighed as pines sigh, over pauper or crown ; 
The breath of the aspens seemed human and near — 



12 



How he shuddered in stopping his breathing to 

hear — 
How he shuddered at stir of the fagots he trod; 
At the stir of the shadows flecked over the sod ; 
How he cowered in ambush, then smiled back at 

fear — 
Surely wraiths leave no footfalls for any to hear — 
How he walked on erect with full girth spread elate 
Through the puffings of pride at his wisdom's estate ; 
Then, all in a trice, how he shrunk, limb and bone, 
With the creepings of horror, but moral, alone, 
To see down the way where the road winds round, 
Toward the place where he stood, without rustle or 

sound, 
A procession appear, solemn, stately and white ; — 
The spectral array of St. Michaelmas night — 
A maiden he knew, aye, many another; 
Fair babes with sweet faces; the cowl of a brother; 
Men sturdy at arms; women fairest to see; 
The aged with staff ; whom more could there be? 

He looked. He must know every face to be seen. 
Shrunk gasping and frozen to terror extreme 
He bent toward the line as it slowly swept nigh, 
Drew closer, drew closer — the wraiths breathed a 

sigh — 
He felt himself moving; he shrunk back amain, 
But nothing so mortal such wraiths could detain; 
He felt himself moving at head of the line 
With pace ordered solely to wraiths' pace and time. 
Each hair on his head stood up in affright ; 
His eyes, burned to coals, turned to left nor to 

right— 
The procession moved on toward the old minster 

door, 
The Abbot behind, but the Prior on before. 
13 



BY PROXY 

My heart on Genivieve is set, it is; 
My aching heart is in a fizz, it is, 
Such as no words can paint, no lips express — 
How can a heart its love confess 
Without a word to fit — 
The mark to hit? 

My lips part dumbly when I humbly try — 
Just looking in her glittering, glancing eye — 
To turn a sentence as it turned should be! 
No words I catch can well agree 
My frenzied soul to show 
In all its glow! 

What can be done I wonder, in such stress 
To find a way my anguish to confess! 
Suspense will drive me mad unless I chance 
Some words to find my project to advance, 
And all the past retrieve 
With Genivieve. 

I practice here apart — aye, frenzied do repeat 
Sublimest phrase, occasion well to meet! 
Until I simply swoon, and drift away 
In sheerest, stark dismay, 
For I perceive I fail 
To tell the tale! 

Now Genivieve I truly must impress, 
But other lips, imploring, must confess 
The homage of my soul, and speak for me; 
Implore her grace, in high degree, 
For Genivieve divine 
Must yet be mine. 
14 



THAT WAG OF A BROTHER* 

Two friars on their elbows leaned, illy at ease, 
With a tankard of ale and some porridge of peas 
Stood midway between them. The question was this, 
Which friar of the two should indulge in the dish 
And drink of the ale, for, whate'er was the matter, 
Scarce enough for but one was in tankard or platter. 

To decide the thing wisely might have puzzled, in- 
deed, 
The Abbot himself. So urgent the need 
Across the deal table each face cast a scowl 
At the opposite face, yet under its cowl, 
One eye glittered suddenly, and under his breath, 
The merry man chuckled within, to himself. 

"Come comrade;" he said, stroking down his smooth 

chin, 
"I verily think it is time to begin, 
And, as it is plain only one can be fed 
Let us settle the question and hasten to bed." 

Now he rolled up his eyes, and Sincerity's self 
Seemed to speak from his lips; "For porridge, or 

pelf, 
Or tankard of ale, no soul would be willing 
To barter itself — come, here is a shilling, 
As I toss it up — no, stay; just suppose 



*Some of our readers may have heard of the famous 
traveling stones of Australia. Similar stones have re- 
cently been found in Nevada ; they are usually about the 
size of a walnut and of an ivory nature; when placed 
within two or three feet of each other they at once start 
to travel toward a common centre. 



15 



In this matter we all our reliance repose 
On the will of the saints?" Meekly, over his breast, 
He crossed himself twice. "It must be confessed 
Such choice would determine the matter entire ; 
See; here are some stones from the funeral pyre 
Of St. Crystom, the Martyr; for many a year 
I have carried them so. I will lay them just here; 
If they stay where I put them the supper is thine; 
If they roll toward each other the supper is mine." 

Content, the friar opposite crossed himself too; 
Chuckled softly, as ever another might do; 
Leaned back on his chair, his great worsted gown 
Flowing loosely at ease, neither quite black nor 

brown, 
And tied in the middle with girdle of hemp, 
With a breviary stuck in, and a rosary, sent 
From the Pope direct, with a relic of bone 
Any Saint in the kingdom might relish to own — 
His hands, on his sides so jolly and round, 
Spread out and pressed in, twitching up, as they 

found 
A twinkle of hope, despite that wag of a brother, 
To clutch at the tankard. Two feet from each other 
The little round stones were put on the table ; 
Six all in a circle; what could be more stable? 

But the hands on the sides slowly loosened their 

hold; 
Down the spine of the friar shot spasms of cold. 
Straight up in the chair, as a corpse in its sheet, 
Sat the man of the cowl, frozen stiff as the sleet 
With the breath of his fear, for each little round 

stone, 
As though it objected to being alone, 
Rolled over and over, and nestled together, 
16 



As birds eggs might nestle close up in the heather, 
While, crossing devoutly the rope on his breast, 
And rolling his eyes to saints whom he blessed, 
That wag of a brother, who carried the stones, 
From the pyre of St. Crystom, or some zone beyond 

zones, 
Without speaking a word the saints to affray, 
Lest perchance he might need them at some early 

day, 
Drew slowly, and surely, as though scarcely able, 
The platter, and tankard across the deal table. 



17 



PERDITA 

Perdita stole my heart, she did! she did! 
And whirled and twirled me as she bid, she did; 
And stamped her silken clogs at me just when she 

would, 
And shook her saucy head — you know she could, 
and can, 
Compel the heart of any man. 

Perdita vowed she loved me. Mortal man 
May doubt Perdita if he can, he can; 
I could not, would not if I could, and humbly 
vowed 
To love her even in my sleety shroud, 

And do, 
And so, you know, would you. 

Perdita's fancies have half driven me mad. 
She really, truly is too bad, too bad, 
But so enchantingly, bewitchingly divine, 
And quite entirely mine 

You see; — 
I know you envy me. 

Perdita's maid must twirl and quirl her hair 
Like any pyramid in air; 
Take care 
To twist it out again, and have it spread to bleach 
On pasteboard circle, where the sun may reach 

And bake — 
Gold locks of black locks make. 

Perdita's clogs must be the richest kind 
Of satin ones; before, behind, 
Soft lined, and covered well with twists of filigree; 
Her petticoats of satin must agree 

With them 
From waist to hem. 

18 



Perdita's fluffy skirts embroidered round, 
Sleeves big enough for any gown, 
I found must from Damascus come, or some far 
heathen place, 
Alack ! and there too was her corsage lace — 

And is; 
Truly a shame it is! 

If all San Marco's riches were but mine; 
If I with ducats did but shine, 
And twine my fingers into gold at every lapping fold 
Where doublets could a single ducat hold, 

I yet 
Perdita's needs had never met. 

Perdita scores my heart she does, she does; 
My ears are deaf with such a buzz, a buzz, 
And when I would be sleeping sweetly in my bed 
I must be twirling in some dance instead, 

And smile 
As if I liked the style. 
Perdita yet will have me dead, she will; 
My limbs are lank; I stoop until, 
Until my breath it goes so weasened, when I try to 

sing, 
She tosses back her head and laughs — the wicked 
thing — 

My hair? 
A dozen spears stand in the air. 

Perdita vows if I should dare to die 
She would detain me from the sky, and fly 
Beside me, but I know, for all, she would not go, 
She likes it mighty well below, 

And soon 
Would chant a different tune. 
19 



ROBINA'S MESHES 

If I had known Robina would be there — 
That charming, wicked Fair, 
With high and mighty air — 

If I had guessed 
She would be so possessed 
To have me dance 
And prance 
In such fantastic styles, 
I would have run, instead, for forty miles! 

If I had known Robina had glanced round 
Intent until she found, 
And had me surely bound 

To twirl about, 
To whirl around, in doubt 
At every jerk 
And quirk 
They pulled me dumbly through, 
I had in running worn away each shoe ! 

If I had guessed Robina could have slid 
Me, as she truly did, 
To meshes neatly hid; 

To twist me so 
From dizzy heel to toe, 
And look askance, 
And dance 
Like shuttlecock blown around, 
I would have flown above the ground! 

If I had dreamed Robina could have twirled 
Me helplessly, and curled 
Her pretty lip to see me whirled 
As any leaf 

20 



Blown round, beyond belief 
Through such a maze, 
Ablaze 
As any wick of flame, 
She had not played her pretty game ! 

But if Robina whirled me to her will, 
And saw me twirled, until 
They all had had their fill 

Of sport so fine, 

To-day the laugh is mine, 

For I can dance, 

Yes, prance, 

In such fantastic style 

They stand aghast the while. 

If then Robina laughed behind her fan, 
To-day she sighs; "That man 
Can dance as any can; 

Ten days ago 
He played us false; ah, woe! 

Surely he knew our cue 
And seemed a very clown. 
My heart, it aches beneath my gown!" 

I was quite sure Robina would be there 
Last night, and did prepare 
To stab her to despair — 

The wicked Dear — 
Determined to appear 
Skilled in the art, 
Apart 
Whirled round, with will and might, 
By Chickabini taught through day and night! 



21 



I was quite sure Robina would be there,, 
And every jilty fair; 
I do, indeed declare 

I was elate 
To choose a maid in state, 
And lead her by, 
To fly 
In such enchanting style, 
Forgetful of all else the while ! 

I knew Robina would, behind her fan 
Sigh then; but heart of man 
Must have, when yet it can, 
Such sweet revenge; 
I did myself avenge, 
And strut and dance, 

Nor glance 
To let her know at all 
I loved her spite of all ! 

And now I must Robina find, you see; 

Love of such quality 
Defies authority 

And stirs the mind. 

I must Robina find 

And make amends 
For I would surely die 
If she, in turn should pass me by! 



22 



OL' BOB AN' ME 

I'll allow he's not very han'som; 
An' he's nothin' t' boast of fer gait; 

His jints is too stiff 

You kin see in a jiff, 
An' he's slim, an' his legs isn't straight. 

So you've cum t' jest look 'im over? 

You're 'sposin' I'd trade 'im you say? — 
As times is so slow 
An' we've nowhere to go — 

Bob an' me's been hitched many a day! 

You s'pose I'd be glad t' be partin' ? 
Putty glad t' be rid of ol' Bob? — 

Such a big mouth t' fill, 

An' things goin' so ill, 
An' nowhere t' look fer a job? 

So you're laughin' in lookin' 'im over? 
So he's not very much of a hoss ? 

Mebbie not; we agree, 

Ol' Bob hoss an' me, 
But you'll not be a partin' us, Boss. 

We've come a long spell close together; 
We've tuckered along cold or hot; 

We're a trifle too spare, 

From a livin' on air, 
An* doin' a big deal o' trot. 

But who'd I have after a partin' ? 

Who'd watch fer me; reach fer me hand? 
Who'd try t' converse 
When things went purwurse, 



23 



An' Bob ? — who'd he have t' snug up to ? 
Who'd keer jest like me fer 'im, Boss? — 

It's not till I'm dead 

As a stick in me bed 
Any feller'll lead off me oP hoss! 



24 



ANTONIO'S GOAL 

If I were but a prince, alack! 
And had a valet at my back, alack ! 
I would not draw a bow across a string, 

Or pass my cap and sing — 
Aye, sing as though my soul were in it — 
I'd break the bow this very minute! 
And smile, 

Yes, truly smile the while. 

But now, in this detested gear, 
I daily, hourly, must appear, and steer 
My footsteps where the jilty mob goes by, 

And, glancing toward the sky, 
Must draw my bow across and sing; 
Aye, sing as if I stroked each string 
I bent above 
Only for love. 

If I were but a prince, in truth, 
And silken doublets wore, forsooth! Forsooth !- 
And many a bobbing feather in my cap, 

And in at every flap 
Great ducats slid where pouch could hide, 
Or ducats slide, I would be dignified, 
Nor even know 
I ever drew a bow. 



25 



But truly — this behind my hand 
I whisper low — I shall not always stand 
To sing and bow like some buffoon, for know 

Small coins to ducats grow, 
And I Rialto shall forget, and how 
To even draw a pesky bow, or bow, 
Or dumbly stand 
To catch a Sou within my hand. 

I Venice shall forget as well, 
And go where I can cut a swell, and tell 
Such taking tales of state and grandeur known, 

In such a mighty tone, 
That even / shall see in me 
A scion of great nobility, 
Nor ever know 
I even owned a bow! 



26 



VIOLA 

And you have not Viola seen? Beware! 
Gold glitters in her golden hair; 
Her lips as reddest rose are red; 
The maddening poise of such a head 
Will drive you mad as mad can be — 
Ah me! 

And so you have not yet Viola seen 
Decked in her dazing, dazzling sheen, 
Nor caught a glimmer of her eyes' — 
Eyes shining as the shiniest skies — 
Not seen an image so divine? 
But mine! 

Viola loves me. This I surely know. 
Her lovers, standing in a row, 
Turn, with their heads askew, to see 
Who hath the vast felicity 
To catch the torch-light of her eye— 
They sigh! 

When you behold Viola you will know 
Why mortal man is harried so 
By ecstacies of joy and grief, 
Distractingly beyond belief — 
I have, you see, Viola yet 
To get! 



27 



AH ME! 

Meandrea's bonnet on a peg! — it wakes 
My heart to beat till it nigh breaks — 
With bows pinned on; ah me! 
What woman ever pinned them on as she? — 
And hollyhocks like any garden; 
I dare to gaze and ask no pardon; 
I vow, oh yes, I vow it — 
My love, I will avow it. 

She may toss back her sweet head, having on it 
A pile of feathers or its bonnet, 
And strike quite through poor me 
With her rash eyes ; — could she so cruel be ? 
And yet, when I turn crimson trying 
With Lord Mariff to be a-vieing, 
Close to his ear she twitters 
Behind her fan, and titters! 

I will Meandrea marry, that I will; 
And strut about in fluted frill, 
And cut a dash, and see 
Her titter back behind her fan with me; 
And I bow off Mariff so finely — 
She can but own I bow divinely — 
I vow, I vow I will it ; 
I vow and will fulfil it! 

Meandrea's face I see within this bonnet 
As if the thing were on it; 
I practice, so you see; 
I bow; I bow before it gracefully; 
Surely when I am dressed in filigree 
She will smile now on me, 

Now I have caught the knack— 
Who peeps at yonder crack? 
28 



Meandrea entering at the door, ah sakes! 
And now she in upon me breaks 
With Lord Mariff, ah me! 
Strutting in all his high-flown majesty 
In froth and fluff of senseless jargon — 
It was a pretty, pretty bargain 
I drove with Fate, for now 
Too late I learn to bow! 

Meandrea giggles outright ; bother on it ! 

Had I but practiced toward some other bonnet 
Elsewhere, she had never 
Dreamed, although so mighty deft and clever, 
How I became so very polished, 
Nor had my heart been so demolished ; 
It is demolished, oh I vow it — 
My love ? — dare I avow it ? 



29 



MAKE THE BEST OF IT 

We may not turn the moon around to see the other 

side, 
Or slice the ocean up, and so its heaving breast 

divide ; 
We may not whisper to a star and bring it to our 

feet, 
Or coax a little lemon-heart and change it to a 

sweet, 
And yet, you know, the sourest things are sweetened 

to the taste; 
The fractious stars and ocean are not merely so much 

waste ; 
The moon? — well make the best of it and, as you 

roam along, 
Just make the best of what you find and sing Con- 
tentment's song. 
If you would happy be do this, for life is what you 

make it — 
A clam-bake, or a feast of stones, just as you choose 

to take it. 



^o 



BREBANTIO'S LEGACY 

Brebantio gave me a signet ring; 

Something he said of his liege, his King — 

Something I know, of signet and crest — 

I scarcely mind what, remembering best — 

Well, well it is over, some things in the past 

Cling close in the memory up to the last; 

Take back the ring — more breath! more air! 

Lift me up higher! — and bid him wear, 

Forever and ever, that signet ring, 

Just for the sake of his liege, the King. 

The lights burn low ; is it thus you keep ' 

Vigil, watch, when the night is deep? 

Come closer; the darkness grows on apace; 

Let me touch some hand. When you see his face 

Tell him — nay tell him not, I say — 

He remembers the priest, and the bridal day, 

And the trampling feet of the festal train, 

And the misty lights of the holy fane, 

And the courtiers lordly, proud and tall, 

And the bride he wed, and mid them all 

The heart that was crushed — oh give me air! — 

Take him the ring of the King to wear 

But speak not a word of the heart in its shroud, 

That stood in the midst of the festive crowd, 

But see, ere you leave him the signet ring 

Flash on the hand of the liege of the King. 



31 



RED ASHES 

And this is death! 
Hear you the breath 
Among the battered carcasses just there — 
Souls sobbing in despair? — 
Old backs and ribs unstrung 
That once sung 
Well beneath the bow and strings, 
And now by hundreds lie — prone, shuddering things 
Piled up ? They murmur as I speak ; 
Their mellow timbers reek 
With melodies, and cry — 
I know they agonize that I might bid them die 

Before I go — 
That I might cast them to the flame ; go blow 
The embers redder on the hearth; be fleet! 
I thought to patch and fit to future sweet, 
Unnumbered frames ; to wed 
Them yet to bridge and bow — hush ! overhead 
The rafters hear the throb of souls, they have an ear, 
Such black old beams that year by year 
Have drunken grown with sound — 
Lift me ; I fain would look around 
And see 
WTiere last I sat — across my knee 
My dear old Strad. Paganini loved so well ; 
I knew some hidden, darkened spell 
Fell on it as it wept 
And swept 
To rapture all the quivering place — 
The lights grow dim apace, 
I scarce can see 
Yon armor and the swords and spears of chivalry, 
Or, on the floor 
The fiddles I shall touch no more. 
32 



You say 
The embers redden on the hearth? away! 
Dash into flames the souls of music lost — 

Poor fiddles, tossed 
Asides yet saturate with music's breath — 
Together they and I shall meet with Death! 



33 



OH YES I KNEW ., 

Why did I love you so? 
Did I not know- 
That life is but a fantasy which ever fades; 
That life's ecstatic hours in all their crimson 
shades 
Turn to an ashen hue — drift past ; 
That on but changing tides Love's heart is cast ? 
Why did I love you so, Soul that art free across 
abyss of space? 
Did I not know I soon might miss thy face; 
That fires of life flash out, 
And all we dream about 
Resolves itself to mist while we stand by; 
That life's tempestuous ocean drifteth nigh 
To drench out joy and light? 
I knew, oh yes, I knew day turned to night 
And tides came in 
With cold, pervading waters where Love's shrines 
have been; 
That days brought change to every crimson hue — 
Oh yes, I knew it all ; I knew ! 



34 



NOT BLIND 

Blind? — rather say I see 
Past distances of time, far toward infinity! 

Not blind. I know 

The tide of life beats low, 

That darkness folds 

Her hands before my face, and holds 
Me, though the sun 
Touches each marble form, each chiseled, sacred one 

Which I can see as though 

I had no need to go 
Groping, with hands outspread, and yet not blind! 

Love bade me, long ago, to find 

In touch that lost, sweet sight, 

And now? — I know a subtler light 

Than that which glorifies thy day; — 

Touch thou this curve and say 

If it be true or false to beauty's test; 

If chisel yet, possessed 
To find in stone some prisoned form, and set it free, 

Wrought unto mastery 

Such curve being blind? 
Know thou I see. By subtlest light defined, 

I look within the shrine 

Where Beauty's form divine 

Waits, midst unshapen stone, 

In silence and alone 
For me to come. Yes, I can see 
And thou who, most art blind, wouldst pity me. 



35 



THE FISHER-GIRL'S DEATH SONG 

Sea, dash thy wild spray ; 

Waves, waft my boat away! 

Amidst the reefs where corals sleep; 

Amidst white pearl paving the deep, 

Let me be found — I care no more 

To turn my shallop to the shore. 

Sea, thou a face hath swept; 

A heart, cold but to-day hath kept ! 

Is there no pity, hath my moan 

No answer but the ceaseless groan 

Of seas? Where hast thou bound him; 

Where hath thy majesty enshrined him; 

Where are the lips red but to-day, 

The eyes — my light; my stay? 

Dash and scorn on — I care? 

No; pray thee bind about my hair 

With foams as white as mountain snows — 

Sea-weed and foam are on his brow! 

Hasten ; I shake along the wind 

The braids he smiled to see me bind — 

There echoed where the rocks lie low 

Something above the sea — I go 

To join him where the wild waves beat, 

To share his foamy winding-sheet. 

Plunge deeper shallop than before! 

Plunge deeper — on the waves no more 

Proudly we ride, thy breast as light 

As eider-down on breakers height — 

Proudly we ride the waves no more, 

Dance gaily to the shell-set shore — 

Thou tremblest? — my heart is strong — 

Thou tremblest? — Heaven forgive my wrong! 

Plunge deeper! — Bark! — thy timbers part 

To give the sea my broken heart. 

36 



BLIGHTED 

She was singing as he passed ; 
Twining willows deft and fast — 
Twining willows, singing low, 
Eyes all sunshine, cheeks aglow — 
Did he thus at last behold 
Eyes of light and locks of gold 
Matched to some Madonna old 
He had seen — an ideal fair 
Mystic light on lip and hair? 
Andalusia's fairest maids 
He had scanned in woods and glades; 
Fairest maids from sea to sea, 
But none he found as fair as she. 
He wooed and won the little maid 
And robed her in the rich brocade, 
And paid her court in regal hall 
But sad her smile amid it all; 
For nurtured where the willows grew 
And where the mountain violets blew, 
She faded as a flower that dies 
In sighing for its own blue skies. 



37 



BETTINE 

Her bodice was of scarlet and her petticoat of gray, 
Her wooden shoes 
Oh, who could choose 
Shoes daintier than they? 
The crimson of the sunset was flooding all the air ; 
He saw its trace 
Across her face 
And midst her braided hair. 
The glad brook flung its music, and the robins flut- 
tering near 

Were twittering low 
And loath to go 
Seemed loitering to hear. 
He told her that he loved her; he told her nothing 
more 

Than woods had heard 
In whispered word, 
For centuries before 
But the crimson neath her lashes, and the bodice 
fluttering told 

How new each word 
The robins heard, 
Unknown to her of old. 
Oh, many a bodice scarlet ; oh, many a skirt of gray 
And shoes of wood 
By brooks have stood 
But none more glad than they. 



38 



THE VOICE SHE HEARD 

The candle flashed along the wall; 
Along the andirons grave and tall; 
The fire-forks flickered in and out — 
He whispered low. The winds without 
Beat at the sash, the oaken door, 
And sighed as winds sigh evermore; 
The pines beat, moaning, toward the sash- 
She stayed her breath his words to catch. 

The crane hung high above the fire 
Where it had hung for many a sire; 
The chimney tiles some story told, 
She used to listen to of old; 
Beneath, the foot-worn oaken floor 
Sighed low of love-words heard before, 
And overhead, the rafters too 
Bowed down to speak — she only knew 
The words he breathed upon her ear; — 
She stayed her heart the words to hear. 

The clock tolled slowly from the wall 
Loves shivering legends to recall; 
The trinkets shining on her breast 
Some fragment of the past confessed; 
A wraith of Love bent low to see 
How like Love's eyes of light might be 
To those that once burned still and deep 
The vigil of their past to keep, 
And would have told her to beware — 
She only knew his heart was there; 
This, only this, she truly knew, 
His heart was love and love was true. 



39 



MADALINE 

•I 

What if he whispered to Madaline? — 
She was only a child of the forests green, 
Winding willows to the song of the leaves — 
To the twitter of swallows under the eaves — 
Her face he would steal with his pencils gay, 
What if he stole the heart away? 

Madaline's face— the very same — 

Critics, awed, to the easle came. 

Coy are the wings of light renown 

But she stooped, unwooed, to the easle brown. 

She stooped unwooed, and the wide world heard 

The rustling breath that her wings had stirred. 

Madaline's face ! — could the whole be told 
Of the half veiled eye, of the locks of gold, 
The tender curve of the lip which stirred 
With a changing smile at each whispered word ? 
Madaline's face with its witchery untold 
Immortal on canvas, with locks of pale gold; 
Renown for the brush which such witchery could 

trace, 
But what for the heart that was lost with the face:' 



40 



THE GONDOLIER'S LAMENT 

I saw her face; 
It was not sad; it bore no weary, longing look, 
that I could trace. 

No mystic shadow. Night was deep. 
I saw the radiance of a hundred waxen lights sweep 
Over lip and hair; 
I saw his face the radiance share; 
I knew he spoke. 
The wind shivered along the night and woke 
Strange echoes; in the flood beneath 
My oar blade, in its watery sheath 

Quivered. I know 
They told me, in the long ago, 
That things they call insensate writhe and groan, 
Making of human woe their own; 

I know 
My light craft shivered in the brine below! 

I saw his face — 
Proud, toned with the rich blood of his race — 
But as he spoke she did not turn aside, 
Nor glance, in yearning, to the throbbing 

tide ; 
I swept a hand across my lute's weird 

strings — 
She smiled, unwittingly, nor heard the things 
The quivering strings had told. Oh sea, 
Venetia's marbles pale and white, heed not thy min- 
strelsy, 

Yet day by day, 
They mirrored on thy bosom lay, 
And moaning to her frozen breast 

Thy waves, with anguish unconfessed, 

Throb on. Be this my part, 
To bear the image of a frozen heart! 
41 



MADELINE'S GARDEN 

In Madeline's garden the roses lie dreaming 
Midst sheen of the dew and breath of the pines — 
As red as the ruby, and white as snow crystals 
The roses that hide midst the tangles of vines. 

In Madeline's garden the harebells are swaying 
The columbines too, where the rock-mosses cling, 
And over phlox-clusters the bees go a-humming 
With heads full of pollen and dew on each wing. 

In Madeline's garden the birds come a-wooing; 
Nests hide in the thickets, and swing on a bough: 
Midst nooks of the wild thyme and spans of rose- 
mary 
Drift whispers of love, and the song breath of vow. 

In Madeline's garden, where fire-weeds are bloom- 
ing; 
Where butterflies poise on each flower-chalice rim, 
Comes Madeline early to work in her garden, 
Or dip in her pail at the rock-basin's brim. 

Madeline's garden is for joy and for dreaming 
And what are her dreams as she stands in the sun — 
Her braids shining golden, this lithe, idle dreamer, 
Who leans on her hoe though the work is not done ? 

Her bodice is heaving, for thoughts come in tangles ; 
She stamps down her foot in that wee, wooden clog, 
Then throws back her head in a torrent of laughter — 
A symbol of sunbeams that shine in a fog. 

Was ever a wonderful, wonderful garden 
As sweet as this garden with roses a-gleam 
Where, in petticoat homespun, comes Madeline 

working, 
Or standing in sunshine to dream out a dream ? 
42 



THE OUTCAST'S LAST DREAM 

The storm beats fast; 
She used to wrap me round — but all is past. 

If I had but her hand; 
If I could once, just once, beside her stand — 

But she is dead. Her face? 
I think her face is bending from its far-off place 

To me. 

Around the bleak winds beat. 
I dreamed, at first, my sleety winding-sheet 
Was cold; crept, shivering from the street 

Beneath this ledge of stone; 

Crept shivering and alone 
Beneath this place — 
Her arms are bending with the face! 

I do not feel the torrent beat; 

I feel no sleety winding-sheet ; 

I hear the songs she sung of old; 

The bleating of the mountain fold; 
The sheep-bells up the mountain side — 

I see, I see — all glorified, 
Her face, her hands! She bendeth low, 

Oh touch me, lift me, let me go! 



43 



THE SOUL-FLOWER 

Annemone 

A while ago just crimson flowers 

Trailed on the sod, or lifted into bowers, 

Told where Adonis' blood was shed — 

Blooms stained blood-red — 

But now white wind-flowers shiver midst the grass, 

A myriad clustered through the pass 

Where Venus sowed the soil with tears, and he was 

slain, 
These have sprung soul-like from the sacred rain. 
Behold them shuddering stand, swayed at a breath, 
But vowed to battle to the death 
With winds that beat, and rocks that bar the way — 
Immortal Love's hot tears that mingled with the 

clay! 



44 



THE MODEL. 

The work is done. 
He mixed the colors one by one, 
And touched them in; 
He marked the lines of lip and chin 
And bid me wear 
A ruby jewel, carved and rare 
Just where he placed it in my hair. 
How dead 

The white, cold ashes on the hearth once red! 
The wall how dark 

Smoke-wreathed, and stained, and bare, and stark; 
The grim old rafters used to be 
A deal more light, it seems to me; 
And on the floor 

The sunbeam? — why it gleams no more. 
He stood — I see him now — just there 
And shook the wicked locks of hair 
Back from his face, 
Stepped off a pace, 
And knotted up his brows to see 
The picture, or the paint, or me, 
Not quite as it were best to be; 
Or looked such pleasure with his eyes — 
Such wondrous things of pleased surprise — 
When all was well. I wonder why 
He stopped that day in passing by, 
And asked, in such an idle way, 
If he might come from day to day 
And paint beside the hearth, and trace 
My bodice, or, perchance, my face — 
My bodice braided down before — 
The distaff by the cupboard door? 
I can not tell; I only know 
He often used to come and go; 
45 



He often stayed the whole day long; 
I wove my willows to his song, 
And sighed that days would hurry so; 
Watched through a chink to see him go ;- 
I can not wear the bodice now; 
It hangs quite out of sight, and how 
Will all the weary days go by? — 
They shall not know I weep or sigh, 
Or listen for the latch, or wait 
To see him enter at the gate. 
I weave my willows in and out 
And have his face to dream about. 



46 



FAIR LOVE 

Love's face was stormy looking through 
The violet mists above the dew; 
He shook aside the locks of light 
Bent on pursuit. The night 
Was past, and quivering day- 
Above the moors all purple lay — 
He saw the shaft of morning gold 
Float onward through the dreamy wold, 
And, angered that it passed him by 
Swift clasped his sandals, on to fly. 

His brows were knit, and then unbent, 
With such a fond bewilderment 
Of tender woe it might have seemed 
No shaft of light that ever gleamed 
Could pass him by — so fair his face 
With eyes of fire and curves of grace, 
All light might revel in and stay 
Content, complete the livelong day. 



47 



So wan and fair that face could be, » 

So shy in its intensity 

Of anxious fear; now shook with dread 

Bleached white as snow, then blossom-red, 

As skies flushed roseate where they dream 

Of sun's luxuriant, golden sheen 

Just out of sight. Love's face is fair, 

Illumined; neath his shining hair 

The azure darkens in his eyes. 

Love's form is lithe; if it defies 

Space, obstacle, or height or depth, 

Or winds that beat, or even self, 

It sways with storms ; breathes hard and deep ; 

Vibrates with all the winds that sweep ; 

Knows anguish, as it cuts and scathes 

Through nature's heart; bathes 

In its visions but to rise 

And shivering slay in sacrifice; 

Yet Love is strength, if it pursue 

Past violet mists and sheen of dew, 

And purple moors — the morning's Ray 

Saw Love at last and could but stay! 






4 8 






WHERE ART THOU, SWEETHEART, TO- 
DAY? 

The wild blooms awake on the meadows; 

Fair Day its clarion rings; 
I catch Joy's echoes, its laughter; 

The rhythm of circling wings; 
The rhythms sung close to the cradles of birds, 

That breathes of the sunlight sway — 
The rapture of love broodeth deep, broodeth low, 

But where art thou, Sweetheart, to-day? 

The cloud-wings are flushed in the rose-light; 

Beneath lies the sheen of the dew; 
The garlands of opening roses 

Proclaim that the day is new, — 
Proclaim that the rapture of life broodeth nigh, 

That the rapture of love holdeth sway; 
But where is the hand I would hold in the dawn — 

But where art thou, Sweetheart, to-day? 



49 



IF YOU HAVE LOVED 

If you have loved you know 
You would take off your diadem, if it were so 
That you could place it where you would, that it 

might glow 
Above another life, nor care to wear 
A single joy that other life might bear — 

If you have loved. 

If you have loved you know 
You would, to take another's cross, bend low 
And count it gain to bear it with you so, 
However deep the shadow it may cast, 
However strong the girths that bind it fast — 

If you have loved. 

If you have loved you know 
v ou would yourself forget in joy, or woe 
rVbich thrills another life, and so 
Forget vourself to please, that you may be 
Perfected unto ministry — 

If you have loved. 



50 



JUST ONE 

The Soul, behind a bolted door, 

Holds carnival in state, 
Selects its favored courtiers 

To pass its bolted gate. 

The Soul no reason stoops to give, 

Explains no which or why; 
A tyrant in a mimic world — 

The all-potential "I." 

It feasts at will midst pageantry, 
With regal guests perchance, 

Or dines where moths by mystic brooks 
Whirl by in mystic dance. 

It gathers in for company, 

Wits, wags — just whom it will; 

Disports itself in gallantry, 
Or stands morose and still. 

The Soul holds many a carnival 
And yet, when days are done, 

The guests steal out by gate and door, 
Save one — just one! 



SX 



ABIDING PRESENCE 

Are thy walls sentient? — are they yet a-fret 

Where light and shadow met 

As he passed by? 

The words he spake? — are they yet nigh 

As some lost song that echoeth still 

Its breath of music to distill 

As though not lost? 

Just there his footsteps crossed, aye came and went, 

And it was there he bent 

Above the page he read, 

Or paused to dream instead. 

This latch? — his hand would touch it as he passed. 

Just there I looked upon his face the last — 

Can love's lost pages be forgot? 

There is a Presence near me though I see him not. 



541 



THE VOICE MIDST CRASH OF THE 
BREAKERS 

A voice echoes on midst the darkness — I linger to 

hear it yet 
As it sung when the sun stooped over, where sands 

with the brine were wet: 
As it sung when the noon was golden ; when morn- 
ing stole over the sea 
While the dreamers slumbered in dreamland — the 

song that was just for me. 
A voice sings on midst the darkness : it fails me and 

then I hear: 
Midst the thundering crash of the breakers it echo- 

eth, echoeth near: 
Midst the dirge of the troubled waters, the chords 

of the Hymn of night 
It passeth and then returneth — that song from a 

dream ot light! 
Oh Voice that a spirit heareth: Oh Voice with thy 

music-strain, 
The heart of the Sea is singing the chords of a rapt 

refrain — 
To one who heareth in darkness thy echoing tones 

belong; 
Thy breath is the breath of Music; thy soul is the 

soul of Song. 



55 



THE SUPREME VOICE '* 

Why is one voice the sweetest, 
In all harmony repletest, 
With us still awake or sleeping; 
With us laughing or in weeping; 
Mingled with the thud of labor; 
Mingled with the crash of sabre; 
Mingled with the breath of sighing; 
With the whispers of the dying, 
Mingled with the martial drumming, 
With the thud of footfall coming; 
With the footfall going, going; 
With the wind-songs, and the flowing 
Of the waters ever moaning; 
With the songs of day intoning 
Psalms of life — oh we can hear it, 
Reaching ever to be near it, 
Midst life's thunder, or its sighing, 
Through her music — time defying — 
Some one voice is ever drifting, 
One fond melody uplifting 
Thought to some one human face 
Time's scathing hand may not deface. 



56 



THE UNBIDDEN GUEST 

A Presence hitherto unseen, 
And past the guarded wall! 

Forbidden guest 

Not by request 
Within the guarded hall! 
A presence radiance hath touched, 
Time's fervent lips have met, 

Life's subtlest dream — 

The watch between 
Hath slept on guard, and yet — 

The Soul had built a wall and moat ; 
A keep, which might defy 

Just such sweet guest, 

Or power possessed 
To pause in going by. 
The Soul, within a haunted shrine, 
Has sacrified at will; 

In silence drained 

Each chalice, stained 
To crimson, Fate would fill. 

It raised its hand to ward away 
Love's presence at its shrine, 
For well it knew 
Joy's rapture slew 
The lips that touched its wine. 
And now the Soul her shivering hand 
Would raise to put away 
The strange, sweet guest, 
By chance possessed 
Within its shrine to-day; 
But, when it turns, one draught to drink 
Of Joy's pervading breath, 
57 



It knows alone 
Joy may atone 
For all in life, in death. 



LOVE'S PRESENCE 

If through thy dream 
Some Presence hath winged in, as morning's gleam, 

And you perceive 
Love's eyes that turn toward thee; believe 
That life from death stirs with the whisper of his 
breath, 

What matters that on either side 
Time's voices moan across the tide — 
How couldst thou ever think to hear 
If Love but even wingeth near? 



58 



VISTAS OF THE PAST 

Along the vistas of dreamland 

The vistas of long ago — 
Love catches a trace of the memory-face 

That passeth to and fro. 

Along the vistas of dreamland, 

The pageants of love pass by, 
With the shadowy grace of some mystic face, 

The flash of the love-lit eye. 

Oh Change, with your dreamland vistas, 

Oh Pageant that drifteth past, 
Can naught remain but the crimson stain 

Where Love hath been and passed ? 



59 



THE STAVE THAT IS LOST BY THE WAY 

Aye, there is music somewhere; 

There are voices we reach to hear; 
The heart standeth still in its anguish — 

An echo alone drifteth near, 
An echo of music and laughter, 

Of breath drifting out on the day 
Oh what cares the world, as it passes, 

For the stave that is lost by the way? 

Aye, there is music somewhere; 

The sweetest of time to some heart; 
The world careth not that it heareth, 

Nor turns where it breatheth apart ; 
But somewhere a spirit is yearning 

For the music that drifts through the day— 
The music that others are hearing; 

The stave that is lost on the way. 



60 






FORSAKEN PATHS 

Over yonder forsaken pathways lie 

Midst ashes of dreams that are dead; 
Midst phantom mists of the memory-land — 

Their cold white mists and the red. 
The feet have passed over, nor may they return, 

But the fires that burned on the way 
Lie crimson yet, where shrines are set 

Illuming the memory-day. 

From forsaken paths of the memory-land 

Come echoes that drift to and fro — 
The voices of music and laughter; 

The songs of the long ago. 
Oh songs from the pathways forsaken; 

Oh echoes of breath that hath passed, 
Soul only is rich when it loveth, 

Though idols be felled at the last. 



61 



CAN LOVE FORGET? 

Can Love forget? 
As a sweet flower whose incense resteth yet 
Above a shrine, though it be dead, 
And as a word that once was said 
Yet burneth red 
Through time, so doth love stay- 
Though dust be dust ; though idols turn to clay ! 



62 



THEIR TRIBUTE 

The world had scorned him ; to the wall 

Had turned his canvas; bent not to the call 

Of Genius speaking clear 

And asking to be heard. Near 

Was a canvas on the easle-stand, 

A palette in the frozen hand, 

One night when someone came, 

Swept by a sudden fear, to speak his name. 

The broken chair was in the old, old place. 

But on the silent, peaceful face 

Was no desire. The world? — it bore him forth in 

state ; 
Carved letters on the royal gate 

To speak his name, 
And wrote it on the scroll of fame 
In burning gold, 
But then the broken heart was cold. 



63 



THE ROSETINTS OF LIFE 

it 

There is a Rogue who mixes every rosetint of a life ; 
You may splotch across your palette, and puddle 

with your knife; 
You may scribble up your folios, and try the pipes 

of Pan, 
Or batter at an anvil, or puzzle out a plan, 
But you will never, never, catch the rosetint flush of 

life 
Through a hammer, or a music-staff, a quill, or 

palette-knife, 
Till this Rogue looks in upon you, when, behold ! — 

around, above, 
Your world is drenched in color! — the rosetints of 

young Love. 



6 4 



LOVE. 

When Love is nigh 

Who hears the storm-breath's anguish-cry; 
The echo from time's writhing seas? 
Love's whisper meaneth more than these. 

When Love wings in 
Who careth what the past hath been? 
The wraiths along the past are dead; 
The wine of life is ruby-red ! 

If Love goes past, 

Nor stays his wing his tent to cast, 
What matters that all else beside 
May stop to enter and abide? 

If Love stoops low 
And lingers — oh, you surely know 
It matters not what foot drifts past, 
If Love alone his tent will cast! 

Love's breath is strength; 

It giveth force to go the length 

Of paths toward goals — to vanquish space ; 

To wage the conflict; win the race. 

Love's wing is fleet; 

It drifteth in its own to meet 

And startles Silence from her sleep — 

It enters though thou vigil keep! 



65 



Love's voice is low; 
No music is so sweet, I know. 
To hear it is life's wine to drink 
At ecstacy's sweet, quivering brink. 

Love bringeth light. 
He wingeth from the breast of night 
And, lo, along transfigured skies 
The mystery of morning lies. 



66 



IF SHE HAD NEVER LOVED 

If she had never loved him then, you know, 
She would be poorer, for, as riches go, 
The costliest gift is love, to hold or to bestow. 
If she had never loved, she would to-day 
Have undipped wings, drift lightly on the way, 
Nor wrench Time's veil apart to stand by broken 
clay. 

But had she never loved could she have ever seen 
Time's subtlest light, and all its prismic sheen, 
Or read the writing on Love's mystic screen ? 
Standing apart, could she have ever known 
The rapture-breath of Love's transcendant zone, 
Or ever guessed why Love is king alone? 



67 



THE STRANGER-GUEST " 

Out of the darkness, as a drifting star unknown ; 

Out of the silence, as some stray seraphic tone, 

Cometh fair Joy — though all unknown before 

Soul, startled, stoopeth to adore, 

And Love, forthwith, bendeth his bow! 

If you have loved you know 

Time's full estate could never pay 

The cost of Love's estatic day — 

The tribute levied where Love wings. 

But this you know the mystic rhythms that he sings 

Wing spirit to its destined height — 

If Love be nigh who heedeth night? — 

If Love lie trampled on the way 

Who heedeth pageants of the day? 



68 



LOVE'S MEASURE 

If he should pass 

And press some other lips to his, should pass 

And tell to other eyes 

"I love thee," sacrifice 

Of worlds could not atone, 

Or startle, her to drink alone 

Some draught of joy. If he to her should say 

"I love you," and all the world were darkened from 

that day 
Save his charmed being, she would yet content 
Live only in the light. If day were spent 
Forever and she knew 

Fair sunlight's benediction could never thrill anew 
Her dark, closed eyes, 
Yet if, in love's sacrifice, 
He should stoop and say, 
"I love thee:" it were yet, to her, but light and day. 



69 



OUR HIDDEN WORLD ., 

There are portraits we look on at any time 

By sunshine or lamps of the night; 
There are those that we draw from a sacred shield 

And hold by a sacred light; 
There are faces that live in a world of dreams 

In the mystic sheen of the air — 
We bow to their royal diadems 

And they go, we know not where. 

We live in a world of fantasy 

No eye but our own hath seen ; 
We drink of wine no hand hath brewed, 

And riot in golden sheen ; 
We drink of wine no hand hath touched 

But this soul, at its hidden shrine; 
We know no joy in the outer world 

Like the froth of this mystic wine. 

We love, but the lips have no words to paint 

To another the vistas of light, 
The peace, or pageant that live for us 

In the world of the inner sight; 
Alone we drink of the froth of its wine, 

We stand in the sheen of its day, 
For souls, in this sweet, fair world of ours 

Speak but through a shield of clay. 

We live in a world where a passing throng 

Press close for a touch of the hand, 
Yet alone we drift through our golden world 

In the maze of the hidden land. 
We breathe midst joy of the fantasies 

We catch from the dreamy air; 
We know no joy like the wordless joy 

Though we build and know not where. 
70 



DISENCHANTMENT 

But yesterday there came a voice across ! — 

What did it matter that the world was drenched in 

loss, 
And shuddered in unrest? — 

Who stops to hear when Time would be confessed 
Of tyranny and woe if there but be 
Such voice awing across immensity? 

But yesterday I heard the music-breath 

Which woos one to forget that on beyond stands 

Death, 
And I was glad 
For could a heart hear this and then be sad ? 

But yesterday life's wine was ruby-red 

And rose light drifted overhead 

And down below 

But, oh you know 

Time's pageant ever changeth hue — 

Its crystal goblets crash, however new — 

Life's ruby wine is spilled ; its music hushed ; 

Its idols crumble to the dust! 



7i 



MEMORY-LAND 

We live in a land of shadows ; 

We live in a land of dreams 
Where pageants are passing day by day, 
Of light and darkness that drift away — 

Of love-light's transient beams. 

We grasp for the passing shadows, 
We drink of the transport of joy; 

We hold warm hands 

Of the shifting sands 
As a child clasps his toy. 

We lose in the glare of the sunshine, 
We lose in the mists of the night, 
The soul we found but a while ago, 
The touch of life that thrilled us so; 
The glow of the mystic light. 

We call to the vanished pageants; 

To the day, with its vanishing beams ; 
But we hold no hand but a memory-hand, 
On the weird, sweet shore of memory-land, 

In the changeable light of dreams. 



72 



THE FACT SHE KNEW 

I wonder if he loves me! 

Of course I do not care; 
I only twine this rose he gave 

Across my braids of hair 
Because it is so fair and sweet — 

It is a dear, fair rose — 
But should he come this way to-night 

I truly do suppose 
He would be sure to see it there; 

He would be sure to know 
I like the little flower he gave. 

All quaintly in a row 
The bluebells that he planted bloom 

Along my garden-bed — 
I wonder why he brought them there 

Nor took them home instead! 
I wonder why his face comes back 

The livelong day, and why 
I cannot hush a voice I hear 

However I may try. 
I wonder if he loves me — 

Oh I cannot, cannot tell, 
But of course I do not love him, 

And I know this very well. 



73 



RODRIGO'S INVOCATION, 

Turn off thine eyes! 

I will not bear them. Sacrifice 

This much, if it be sacrifice, for my sake ; 

I for thee would take 

A bitter draught and call it sweet, but this? — 

I cannot bear it! — this? — 

Turn off thy eyes! be strong, 

Be strength to me. I do no wrong 

In simply loving thee, but must I bear 

The look turned toward me that thine eyes can 

wear? 
Radiant, supreme amid the glittering throng, 
Let me but see thee laugh and frown; belong 
But to the pageant, not to me ; 
Forget the hopes now gone; look on me coldly; be 
Quite glad in all thy beauty, tempting me to scorn 
The passion of my soul. Torn 
Into fragments be the past, but know 
I can not bear thy speechless woe. 
Turn off thy eyes! 

Laugh with the festive throng; surprise 
Thy regal courtiers; quite forget 
To turn and look to tell me yet 
With eyes so maddening, what of old 
Made dreams light-winged by being told. 



74 



-" 



Let me with austere presence stand 

Mutely apart. Command 

Me in cold service with a joyous air; 

And I shall be content, but wear 

The anguish of my heart within thy eyes; 

Show me a double sacrifice; 

From place to place 

Turn to me with impassioned face — 

It is too much! — an anguish thou must share 

I am not strong to bear; 

Turn off thine eyes that mine have met — 

Thou lovest yet! 



75 



THE ONE SYMPHONY , 

Did you ever note on the shore of love 

How the footsteps come and go? 

They are here, they are there, 

But the sea comes up 

Past the foot-prints of long ago. 

Did you ever note on the shore of love 
How the foot-prints over the sand 
Go closer and closer toward the tide, 
Till lost in the kiss of the mystified — 
The foam of the shining sand? 

Did you ever note on the shore of love 
The song of the mystic sea? — 
Who hears, hears naught but its rhythmic beat, 
The breath of its symphony. 



76 



TIME'S MUSIC 

Each sound of time is but a note of music; 

Not everyone locates it on the scale, 
But there are those for whom however harsh, dis- 
cordant, 

The music-tones prevail. 

To souls attuned the air is full of music; 

It breathes in clang of every bell that beats ; 
In voices of the north wind, hail and tempest; 

In voices of the street. 

God giveth music not alone where birds sweep over ; 

Where some seraphic voice breaks forth in song, 
Or where the sea its rhapsody uplifteth, 

But midst the surging throng. 



77 



TIME'S ARROWS 

A bit of foliage all aflame; 

The drowsy hum of bees ; 
A dewy cobweb on the grass, 

Some bird-wing midst the trees; 
The pressure of some passing hand; 
Some fragment of a song — 

The wide world knows 

Such bended bows 
Send arrows fleet and strong. 

A doorway where some foot hath passed ; 

Some shadow-haunted wall; 
Some little latch a hand hath touched ; 

Some leaf a hand let fall; 
Some strain left throbbing on the air, 
Unlost though days go by — 

You know, you know 

From many a bow 
Time's quivering arrows fly. 



78 



MY WORLD 

My wine-cup is a chalice 

Which is not wholly mine ; 
Unbrewed by mortal fingers 

The fire-breath of my wine; 
My cavaliers who drink my health 

Are butterflies and bees, 
And dragon-flies of rainbow hues — 

Aye, more than these. 

My caravels are regal; 

My canopy the sun; 
My pageants flash in gems of dew 

And tissues light hath spun; 
My sweets are webs of honey 

Traced through the hearts of flowers ; 
My music fantasies of wings, 

Heart-throbs of showers. 

My guests are loyal to the friends 

They left an hour ago; 
They take no insect name in vain 

On any horn they blow; 
They revel on the wine of joy 

Ambrosia from the sun, 
Ecstatic, wing through blossom mists 

Where lost brooks run. 

My hours are shod with sandals 

Whose dew-enamelled wings 
Know well the haunts of columbine; 

The wood-heart's sacred things; 
They steal the pollen from the flowers, 

Their honey and their dew, 
They chase the mists of sunset's hours 

And mists of sunrise too. 

79 



THE JOURNEY 

A quiet walk through changing days 

Though breath be hot with haste; 

A placid voice, an even gait, 

And eyes that simply look and wait 

Though all the heart be bound and laced 

To keep hot blood in place. 

An echo heard at intervals — 

Some all-pervading strain; 

Some harmony that sweepeth by; 

Some broken chords that fail to die; 

Some cadence of a lost refrain 

That sends its echoes back again. 

Thoughts drenched all through with human joy; 

Thoughts drenched in human tears — 

These, ever these, along time's shore — 

The past, the future evermore, 

The love, the anguish and the fears, 

Through time's impassioned span of years. 



80 






PASSING 

Passing? — the cloud on its white wings: 

The bars and rings 

Of light's ethereal tones 

Drifting through space; vast zones 

Of amethyst, of crimson hue: 

The stars, now there, then lost amidst the blue! 

The fragrance of a flower, 

Its fair, elusive chalice, lost within the hour : 

The wind-song's rhythm: the cry 

Of the lost winds in reeling by: 

The echo of some voice — 

The music-breath one hath no choice 

But needs must hear and lose; — 

The music-breath the heart would choose 

To keep, whatever else might fade, or pass; — 

The face imprinted on Love's memory-glass: 

The rapture-touch of soul to soul — 

Where is the goal 

Where things that are may be 

Continuous in felicity, 

Nor pass bearing Life's love and light 

As Day wings ever on to lose itself in Night? 



81 



THE TWO WINDOWS 

• ii 

Two windows there be in the home of the soul 

Overlooking the labyrinths of time; 
One leadeth midst gardens of gladness and light; 

One leadeth midst shadows and slime. 

Two windows there be in the home of the soul; 

From two vistas the spirit may choose 
The one that it pleaseth him best to behold — 

The window he willeth to use. 

Through one there are vistas of spirit debased; 

Of disaster; of terror, and loss; 
Of darkness that ruleth the spirit of man; 

That marketh each road with a cross. 

But through one there are visions of spirit sustained ; 

Of manhood sublime at its shrine: 
Of life midst the God-given spaces of faith 

Leading up toward spirit divine. 

Two windows there be in the home of the soul : 

God help us to choose one aright — 
From the one that we choose lies the vista we see, 

Be it dark, or a vision of light. 



82 



FUTURITY 

A pathway pruned on either side, 
Yet midst a garden glorified — 
Though through the vistas looking back 
Stand broken shafts along the track! 
A pathway wreathed about and sweet 
With flower-cups trailed beneath the feet- 
And yet, the sweetest buds of all 
Lie broken somewhere neath a pall ! 

Oh Days of barbed path and cross; 
Oh trinkets crumbled into dross; 
Oh idols left upon some pyre; 
Thou Love who whispereth no desire! — 
The wind is bleak that sweepeth by ; 
Lips whisper but none give reply; 
Lips, dreaming, call but none respond; 
No footfall cometh from beyond! 

No pilgrim who hath passed returns 
To altars where the love-fire burns; 
No pilgrim who hath passed comes back, 
And yet this beaten, wavering track — 
This pathway — leads toward the west — ■ 
And sea of light where ends the quest — 
The lifted mists, where, looking through, 
Lies spirit vales beyond the blue! 



83 



COME SEE MY WEEDY GARDEN 

Oh come to see my garden 

Where all sorts of wild things grow; 
Anemonies, hepaticas, 

And bloodroots white as snow; 
And violets white, and violets sweet, 

And striped ones, and spurred; 
And yellow ones, and purple ones — 

All names you ever heard; 
Spring-beauties in their striped skirts, 

And May-flowers white and sweet; 
Arbutus — just a little patch — 

All tangled at your feet; 
And bishops' caps, and coral bells; 

Houstonias bright and blue, 
And, hiding underneath a bush, 

Some orchid splashed with dew. 
And there's perula's fairy bell, 

And star-grass white and tall ; 
And hare-bells, blue as blue can be, 

Trailed on a bit of wall ; 
Sea-holly with its prickly flowers; 

Sabbathia — oh you know 
Sabbathia owns the fairest pink 

The flower-hearts ever know. 
Come later on and you will find 

Bane-berries crimson stems, 
And foam-flowers, and a hundred things 

All in their diadems; 
Lobelias blue, both great and small, 

And, by the arrow-heads, 
The jewel-weeds and monkey-flowers, 

And fire-weeds dusky red; 
Then gentians fringed and gentians closed ; 

Heleniums reaching high, 

84 



And spathes of violet dragon-head 

Held up to sun and sky. 
Then come the snake-roots; culver-roots; 

With raceams tall and white, 
Like spectre armies trailed along, 

If you should come at night. 
And yellow stars lie under foot; 

And partridge-berry flowers, 
And lots of little trailing things 

That come with summer hours. 
Lobelia cardinalis? — 

Oh you should come and see 
The crimson of its banners; 

Its gorgeous panoply, 
And where you see the butterflies 

Go circling round in rings 
You'll find the weed that bears their name 

Decked with some painted wings; — 
And there a bird sways singing; 

And there a bird speeds by, 
And round about in places 

Birds trill a lullaby. 



85 



A PAGEANT EVER WINGETH BY 

To-day on yellow leaves and red, 

On twisting branches overhead, 

On forest labyrinth crimson-dyed; 

On pathways down the mountainside; 

Along the crag and down the steep; 

Low down, where frost-touched meadows sleep, 

The flooded gold of autumn's day 

In splendor lies, yet fades away! 

A bee, rejoicing in the hour, 

Hums low above some lingering flower 

Death hath not touched in winging by. 

Glad, hovering near, a butterfly 

Forgets to-morrow may not be 

A-tide with light's felicity — 

Fair autumn's beams of flooded gold — 

That autumn's hour is nearly told. 

Across the brown-white grass a few 
Pale asters linger, looking through 
The maze of sedges green and brown; 
Through many a sumach's crimson crown. 
Far off the breath of autumn's mist 
Tones purple hills to amethyst — 
This Time's fair pageant for to-day; 
To-morrow? — look not far away 
Toward what the future holds, but drink 
Joy's wine at just the nearest brink, 
And know a pageant wingeth by 
Whichever way the path may lie. 



86 



NATURE'S INTERLUDES 

To rythmic beat 

All nature breathes — to sweet 

True measures subtly replete 

In harmonies untold 

Though time be old. 

We know 

The rythmic flow 

Of life spreads purple on the hills, or red, 

And then the brown-white stems instead 

Of blooms ; stains deep 

Forests that wake and fall asleep, 

And skies 

Aflame at noon and eve for sacrifice; 

Counts for each insect wing, 

Each vocal string 

Of life its rythmic beat, 

That harmonies born of infinitude be true and swe^t. 

All nature breathes in rhythms whether it be 

The pulse of life in stream, or sea, 

Or human breath — nature beats time 

To song and chime 

Of wind and wave; 

Marks off to bar and stave 

The symphonies of space, the roll of seas; 

Light's undulations from far worlds, nor these 

Alone, for spheres to rythmic beat 

Swing on their way, through centuries repeat 

Their symphonies and go 

On measured course through space, and so 

Creative thought distributes power by intervals and 

lays 
In rhythm the key-note of eternal praise. 



87 



UNSATISFIED 

Here, near the hands, some ruby lies 
Some amethyst of subtle dyes, 
Yet, past it, rapt and mystified, 
The hands reach out unsatisfied. 

Day's humid gold is on the air ; 
Day's prismic splendor maketh fair 
All nature, yet we scarcely know 
Day's radiant face ; we bend too low. 

Here bloom fair flowers beneath the feet 
Which, dying, crushed, give out their sweet: 
Yet, yet the feet press on to find 
Some flower beyond — the undefined. 

Here breathes the music of a stream — 
We hear not; further on the gleam 
Of lifted waves, the song of seas 
Call and we go — aye, more than these. 

Here voices speak and we reply, 
Yet subtly there drifteth by 
Some words from lips we cannot see — 
We reach to them for ministry. 

Love whispers low at every breath, 
Love vowed to us in life or death; 
Yet, heedless, toward some distant shore 
We reach to listen evermore. 






88 



JOY'S HOUR 

Joy will not come when bid; 

She waits amid 

Sweet silences and comes unsought, 

As breath of some far flower brought 

By surprise. 

Joy will not stay ; startled at sighs 

Born of a sudden rapture, Joy lifts wing and goes 

One sees not where, nor knows 

How long it yet may be 

Before she will return in ministry. 

Joy's breath is sweet; 

Her lips repeat 

New harmonies, subtle as chords of seas, 

As vesper melodies 

The winds intone. 

Joy stoops to breathe upon one ear alone 

And, from repose 

To rapture startles it, as some still string that knov/c- 

A sudden touch, and into music wakes, 

Joy takes 

Sweet liberties and holds 

Our hands within her own, and folds 

Her fingers on our eyes that we may see 

Naught else but her felicity. 

Joy tints the air; 

Though dark Despair 

Creeps close and startles her away 

Joy's transient hour is worth the price we pay. 



89 



UNFORGOTTEN WORDS. 

Across the mists of time life's harmonies persist — 

The words, the voices missed 

From out the drama, as days drift and go; 

The music low 

Of words tuned to one ear alone 

That singeth on its melody in undertone 

Forevermore. 

As days go by we hear some music-score 

That throbs to words, the sweetest lips have known, 

Written in light across the spirit-zone, 

And held apart 

In the veiled chamber of the heart — 

You know, for you have heard 

The melody that vibrates to some unforgotten word. 



90 



A NEW DAY 

A new day added unto life, and all the sky is blue; 
The marigolds and wreaths of flowers, are spangled 

with the dew, 
And are those rubies on the grass, and sapphires, 

cast about? 
Are spider-webs all crystal tents, like fairies might 

spread out? 
The mists beyond, are they not wings along each 

dreamy space, 
Illumined by a beam of sun — the first to win the 

race? 
And did yon lingering star forget to follow where 

Night led, 
That it might for one day behold Earth's flower- 
stars white and red ? 

A new day added unto life; blood pulsing in each 

vein, 
And fragrant breath of flowers to drink, and 

thoughts to think again! 
The melodies of life are sweet, and sweet each new 

day's chime, 
Though there are minors in the strain sung through 

the heart of Time. 



91 



LOOK FOR THE BEST - 

Scorn not the rood of earth which hath no roses 

grown, 
Nature perhaps hath strown 
Some helpful rootlets there 
Scorn not the rock-bed, desolate and bare, 
It feeds the violets at its base, the trees, 
The columbines — aye more than these. 
Scorn not the Soul who, giving of its best 
Gives much, but owneth not the rest 
That Ideal would demand. 
Look for the best dealt out on every hand, 
Nor think to find, in one frail flower alone, 
All fragrance that Love's hand hath strown. 



92 



PROMISE OF THE UNSEEN 

Blue-bells and hyacinths — 

Then a drift of rain, 
Broken stems and battered bells 

That may not rise again. 
Amethysts and emeralds — 

Rainbows on the grass — 
Then the torrid breath of day; 

Parched herbage on the pass. 

Joy's wings across the air, 

Rapture of a song, — 
Then a bird with broken wing 

Swept by the winds along. 
Glimpse within a human soul; 

Touch of human hand, 
Then a sudden silence reigns 

Along life's arid sand. 

Vision of the vistas near; 

Ecstasy's extremes; 
Then reaching hands outspread 

Toward fleeing, fading dreams. 
Life's rapture and its cries — 

These saturate all time, 
But ecstasy of life unstained 

Pervades our spirit-clime. 



93 



JOY'S PRICE 

To measure joy by anguish — this in time, 

What for the measurement of joy beyond the chime 

Of earth's unstable voices? A dream. 

A flash of thought; a gleam 

Of some infinity, and then we know 

There is a price that we shall pay in woe 

For such keen joy. What then? 

Would we be mute and blind 

Nor dare to find 

The rapture of to-day 

Because it will not stay; 

Would we grope by, 

Nor know time's pulsing light though it may die; 

Would we not hold 

Some human hand because such hands grow cold, 

Or lips forget? — 

Would we stand back nor let 

Time's promise break upon the sight 

All subtlest hues of light?- — 

To live, to love, to die is anguish, but we know 

Joy's rapture floods with light each cloud of woe. 



94 



HAUNTED VISTAS 

I look across my garden 

And I close my eyes and dream; 
I see the trail across the hill, 

And seem to catch the gleam 
Of warriors moving to a fray, 

And hear a battle-cry; 
Or see a Brave with bended bow, 

Go slowly skulking by. 

I see between the tall tree-shafts, 

The mounds of long ago, 
Where warriors, worsted in the fray, 

Lie midst the wreathes of snow; 
I hear a step and mark the trail ; 

See arrows speeding by, 
Or hear some Indian mother near 

Croon out a lullaby. 

Some figure gaunt bends as of old 

Above my Indian-stone, 
To grind the maize for porridge — 

Oh I hear the under-tone 
Of some weird love-song that he sings; 

See rapture in his eye, 
As he grinds the corn, yet, dreaming, 

Looks off toward the sky. 

I look across and try to catch, 
Through trees that skirt the way, 

The height where watch-fires used to flash 
Their signals far away. 

Beside me lie the banner-stone; 
The arrows that have slept, 

Until a little while ago, 
95 



Where women bowed and wept, #( 
And warriors stained the soil with blood. 

Just where my wild flowers low 
Go trailing wreathes across the dust 

When Spring calls off the snow. 
I see the evening camp-fires' 

Weird shadows where it gleams, 
And the past comes drifting to me 

Midst low rhythms, in my dreams. 



96 



THE ECHO OF A THOUGHT 

Why did you come? 

Down where the free birds nest and drum, 

I heard your rapturous song, far through the way; 

It seemed to mock me day by day, 

And call me thither to and fro, 

Across the turf, but ever go 

Beyond me, fainter and afar, 

But once, when on beyond me hung the morning 

star, 
I stirred in sleep and seemed to hear again 
That far-off rapture-song's elusive strain, 
Floating across the morning air — 
Yes, and past the lifted sash, its ecstacy to share 
With me, for you had come! 

How could you know 

Just where a lot of sweet blooms blow — 

Just where my woodbine all its wreaths wound 

round 
Above the trilliums, there upon the ground, 
And gold thread twined ?— where, listening for your 

strain, 
I reached, and stood, to only turn again, 
Wishing across the wind that I could bring 
Only by wishing, such a far, fair wing — 
How could you know? 

Could you have heard 
A message, never whispered in a word, 
Listened, between your songs, to some far call, 
A;id traced it on, to yonder bit of wall 
And further, still — this echo of a thought — 
Until the magic of a wish was wrought? 
Could you have heard ? 

97 



YONDER OLD HILL 

The glint of amethyst, ruby or beryl 
May flash from many a torrent's swirl 
Where the rent cliffs stand, or hills stoop low, 
Rasped by the Storm-king's severing blow, 
And the air is sweet from the blooms that hide 
Close in the rifts that the storms defied, 
But over yonder hepaticas grow, 
And lots of things — the sweetest that blow — 
And the stones that wrinkle the rough old hill, 
Piled hither and yon, so gray and still 
In their coats of lichen, and wreaths of moss, 
Are the dearest stones I have run across. 

There are forests of veterans, who time have de- 
fied— 
The mtonarchs who rule on the mountain-side — 
Vast legions who marshal the winds and cry 
Of victories won as the storms crash by, 
But straighter shafts or legions more true, 
Never sung Te Deums, the ages through, 
Than those that over the rough old hill 
Stand shoulder to shoulder their mission to fill, 
And chant victory-songs when the winds reel past — 
Oh dear are the songs they fling to the blast ! 
There are lots of sweet rhythms time's vistas to fill, 
But give me the music from yonder old hill. 



9 8 






WORDS ARE IMMORTAL 

They say 

Words mean but little any way, 

And yet we know 

Words spoken some long while ago 

Come back to give us joy or pain ; 

They do not die, Words take new form and live 

again 
In lives made sweet, or turned to gall, 
By little words that seem so small 
We would not dream they ever grew 
To heights so great, or forms so new. 

A little praise, a little blame, 

May change a heart to ice or flame; 

May change the color of a day, 

Re-wing Ambition's flight or slay 

Its languid wing. If we would give 

To those who nothing ask, who live 

Quite close to us, more flattering breath, 

More tender words, would life, would death 

Be changed for us at all? We know, 

By words we heard long, long ago; 

By memories that smile or sigh, 

That words rule lives, they do not die. 



99 



YOURS AND MINE 

The little friends we pass — 

Low violets hidden in the grass, 

And thyme, 

And streaked bells of columbine, 

And wind-flowers — all the buds that blow 

Are yours and mine for joy you know. 

Beside, 

There are the emerald meadows wide, 

With clover blooms and tasseled grass, 

And sun-dews where brooks dream and pass, 

And birds croon over song and creed 

By nests they tie from reed to reed, 

And little voices lower down 

Sing rapture-songs of less renown, 

On winds that hurry to and fro — 

All these are yours and mine you know. 

Oh when so many things fade out — 
The forms we hold our arms about 
And think are ours to keep and hold — 
And, shuddering in the dark and cold, 
We look in anguish and amaze 
Along the vistas of the days, 
All these, Love stoopeth to bestow, 
Are yours and mine, for joy, you know. 



IOO 



THE LION OF THE ZOO 

A creature born to freedom, now in chains! 
The mountain forests were his wide domains; 
A regal one among his kind; a king 
Joyous in conflict; supreme within the ring 
He chose to tread ; a creature strong and free, 
Framed but for triumph! Look you well and see 
The caged-one's pose! Each muscle standeth out, 
Strained in its anguish as he turns about, 
Yet turns again — one motion without end — 
His eye bent onward, fixed as though to rend 
All distance and be free, though "Keepers" stand 
Telling his story to the curious band 
Beside his prison-cage. He seeth naught 
But yonder distance, where his eye hath caught 
A glimpse of hills. That motionless, fixed eye! 
That swaying frame; that longing which will die 
But when the muscles stiffen and grow cold! 
And man so fallen that to him is told 
This tragedy of anguish but for him to stand 
Smiling the while! Would that Death's pitying 

hand, 
Whose ministering touch all breath of anguish stills, 
Would touch this frame, these eyes fixed on the far- 
off hills. 



IOI 



JOY 

What is the beauty of a flower? 

Result of causes, hour by hour 

At work beneath some fragile stem, 

Some diadem 

Of green, some rood of earth; 

Causes that have their wonderous birth, 

In mist and sky, 

In beating storm, in tempest-cry 

Of earth's deep anguish; so true joy 

Is not a fleeing thing, coy 

And unfair, material and possessed 

By those who breathlessly pursue; it hath confesse 

No haunt but where it grew 

Resultant, in its radiant hue, 

From causes leading back 

Along a wavering, hidden track, 

To love's abandonment of self; to broken will; 

To sacrifice for right and truth, that still 

Unchanging, standing-place where souls decree 

To lose themselves in immortality 

Of love for man, for Christ — to be 

Their own no more. 

The joy conceived from shore to shore, 



102 



Is but a fruit, a flower; 

A growth resultant from the power 

Stored by Omnipotence in hidden place; 

A natural consequence of certain grace 

In life's pursuit; in standing still; in flight 

In combat; slaughter's fight 

Of awe and blood; of keen desire; 

In flash and flame of inner fire; 

In calm; in trust; 

In trampling idols to the dust; 

In grappling Anguish and Despair — 

Joy springs to flower all unaware. 



103 



THE LAND OF DREAMS ■.. 

Is there any land like the dream-lit land 
Where the phantoms come and go 

Of dreams that are past; of love that will last 
Of wings Hope stoops to bestow? 

Is there any land like the dream-lit land 

Far up past grief and stain, 
Where beckoning stars lie off past the bars, 

Aflood with life's mystic refrain? 

The world beneath, with its cross and its crown, 

Lies stranded where woe is rife, 
But the unstained beams of the land of dreams 

Bear only the songs of life. 

Look above ; live beyond in the land of dreams 

Where visions arise and shine; 
Where, whatever betides, Joy always abides — 

Go drink of its frothy wine! 



104 



FAREWELL, SWEET FLOWERS 

Farewell sweet flowers, thy ministry is ended; 

The frost-breath sweeps where all thy wealth 
was strown ; 
The remnant of thy legions who have tarried 

Stand shivering and alone. 

The call to waken from thy dreamless slumber; 

To break thy earth-bound shackles and arise, 
Bade thee through tireless conflict will to conquer — 

Lift trophies to the skies. 

Onward, unflattering as the ministering angels 
The starry cohorts spanned sweet summer's maze, 

And even midst dim, shadowed spaces 
Strewed fair blooms on the ways. 

Farewell ; the mystic secrets of thy weaving 

Remain with thee though weaving days are done — 

However low one stoopeth to behold thee 
Thy lore is given to none. 

The white, the crimson of thy starry banners; 

The gold and azure of thy changing maze, 
Have lighted with their prismic splendor 

The footsteps of the days. 

Farewell ; the north wind coldly moaneth past thee , 
The storm-clouds drift along the threatening sky. 

The frost-touched meadow's brown-white grasses 
Surge where the winds sweep by. 

The day breathes out its requiem where thou f adest ; 

Joy's woodland music for a time is hushed ; 
Sleep well, sweet ministering ones, till Springtime's 
morning 
With life's awakening beam once more is flushed. 
105 



LOVE'S CREATIVE DREAM 

If only one ecstatic rod 
Had ever lifted up 
Above the sod 

Its fair, frail, wondrous cup — 
Its chalice spun of light — 
And nectar brewed just out of sight, 
Where some fair plant dreamed dreams, 
Time's heart had breathless stood in awed delight. 
But, when a myrial rods, along the way, 
There fragile forms lift up, 
And meadows lie 

Drenched in the blue, or violet dye 
Of wondrous star or cup, 

Fed on the heart of rocks now crumpled to the dust. 
One turns, in admiration, from the dross and rust, 
Of time to see 

Creative might, not throned alone in far-off majesty, 
But, in love's dream, 

Stooping to wreath the hills, the foot-path and the 
stream. 



1 06 



JOSIAH 

Josiah sez to me las' night, 

A-settin' on th' rail, 
Sez he, an' I a-standing there, 

Nigh dropped th' milkin'pail — 
"Ye know I love y'u, Lizabeth, 

But that aint helpin' me; 
YVre mighty fond o' flirtin' round 

Wi' any chap ye see." 

I chewed me gingham bonnet-string; 

I tossed me head aside — 
I meant he shouldn't know th' truth, 

No, even ef I died! 
I turned a look o' scorn on him; 

I step'd a pace away ; 
I jerked acrost a word or two, 

Th' crassest I could say. 

Josiah folded tight his arms, 

Afore he sed a word ; 
He simply jest set there an' looked — 

It truly was absurd! 
I twisted round upon my heel, 

An' spilled a bit o' milk; 
"An' so thet's all y'u've got t'say?" 

He sed as soft as silk. 

"I thought I sed enough," I snapped; 

I wished I was away, 
But every time I turned to go 

I kind o' longed t' stay. 
"Y'u know I love ye, Lizabeth; 

Ye seen it long ago; 
I could not help but show it out, 

An' yet ye treat me so." 
107 



"Good-by;" he said, an' came an* stood 

Up close beside th' pail; 
Good-by, I sez, an' wished he had 

Kept settin' on th' rail. 
"Good-by; y'u've got a lot o' chaps 

I never will be missed ; 
You will not see me soon again, 

So cross me off th' list." 

A quiver shot along my frame; 

How could I let him know? — 
But then th' other question was, 

How could I let him go? 
He seen thet there was something wrong 

He hardly dared t' guess; — 
It was so mean, but, after all 

I had to jest confess! 
An' so when thet ol' moon cum out 

Josiah held th' pail, 
An' we had been fer quite a while 

A settin' on th' rail. 



108 



THE PARTIN' 

So we've come at last to th' partin' ; 

You'll soon be a steerin' alone. 
I'd weather it out ef I could, ol' Dog, 

Ef I lived on a crust an' a bone, 
But th' days as is past is past, ol' Chap — 

Ye must shuffle along widout me; 
I knowed by th' look in y're pityin' eyes 

Ye seen what th' end'd be. 
Another'll be patin' this shaggy ol' head 

A layin' here under me hand; — 
Ye mustn't be mournin' but move on ahead ; 

Now I mean it, ye understand? 
It mighty soon'll be over, — 

But Dan ! — did ye hear what I sed ? 
Why Dan? — he's passed on jest afore me! 
It's no partin', me ol' Dan is dead! 



109 



MAMMY'S HONEY-POT-.. 

I's jest a leetle bit o' lad; 

I's nothin' much t' see, 
But I'm me Mammy's "honey-pot" — 

She thinks a sight o' me. 
She scrubs me till I nigh turn white ; 

She combs me till me hair 
Skeered from its roots goes starin' UP 

Clear standin' in de air. 
She ties me in a pinafore 

So spandy clean an' white 
I darsent roll upon de floo' 

Or help de puppies fight. 
I often kind o' wonder 

If me Mammy banged me roun' 
An' let me spill de lasses; 

Go roamin' some aroun', 
If I wouldn't grow some bigger 

And be somethin' mor' at las' 
Than Mammy's leetle "Honey-pot" 

Fo'eve' a stickin' fas'. 



no 



A NEW DAY 

A new day added unto life, and all the sky is blue; 

I The marigolds and wreaths of flowers, are spangled 

with the dew, 
And are these rubies on the grass, and sapphires, 
cast about? 
Are spider-webs all crystal tents, like fairies might 
spread out? 
The mists beyond, are they not wings along each 

dreamy space, 
Illumined by a beam of sun — the first to win the 

race? 
And did yon lingering star forget to follow where 

Night led, 
That it might for one day behold Earth's flower- 
stars white and red? 
A new day added unto life; blood pulsing in each 

vein, 
And fragrant breath of flowers to drink, and 

thoughts to think again! 
The melodies of life are sweet, and sweet each new- 
day's chime, 
Though there are minors in the strain sung through 
the heart of Time. 



ill 



AT DAWN OF THE YEAR 

Move on with a will, nor dream thou back 
Though a light flashed out on the dead year's track; 
Though the heart lies cold as a thing in its shroud — 
There are hearts as stunned in the shifting crowd. 
We move with the face toward a coming span ; 
We look not back where the deep seas ran! 
There are lights to be struck through a darkened 

land. 
With an onward tread and a strong right hand, 
We dream again — aye, an onward dream; 
We will burnish the days till they burn and gleam ; 
We will look not back where our light flashed out — 
There are shuddering hearts we will dream about; 
There are lights to be struck where hearts stand by 

some shroud; 
We will strike if but one midst the shifting crowd. 



112 



MY BIRDS 

They are not in gilded cages — 

These little birds of mine — 
They do not sing behind a bar 

Their silvery strains divine; 
They are not shut in quite apart — 

These little birds I own — 
Without a single loving friend; 

Just captive and alone. 
The sweet, ecstatic songs they sing 

Are not sung just for me — 
There is some little answering heart 

Quite near on vine or tree. 
They do not dream their dreams in vain 

Of downy nests to twine, 
And little wings to lead in flight 

Along midst twig and vine. 
They nestle near my window-pane; 

In freedom come and go 
Midst tangles of the summer flowers 

Or white wreaths of the snow, 
And chatter as they drink my wine — 

The water pure and sweet — 
And choose among the viands I cast 

Beside their roving feet. 
Oh would I care to look upon 

A bird not ever free, 
Within a little gilded cage 

Held captive just for me? 



113 



MIANDY WILKINS 

As I was fishin' in th' pool, a week ago to-day, 

I seen Miandy Wilkins turn t' come acrost that way. 

I jerked me hat acrost me eyes — she shouldn't see 

me look — 
But I was hardly watchin' then fer fishes on a hook. 

Miandy, like a startled doe, threw back her pretty 

head; 
A pace or two stepped quickly on, when I good 

evenin' said 
As she was comin' round th' bend — this took my 

breath away; 
Me hair? — it farely stood on end; I found no more 

t' say! 

Miandy giggled; screwed her face then quickly int' 
shape, 

An' said t' was mighty pleasant now a-fishin' at th' 
cape ; 

An' stood an' twirled her bonnet-string, while dim- 
ples came an' went — 

Me fishin' pole slid down th' bank; I didn't care a 
cent! 

Th' sun sunk low ; th' shadows grew ; th' bats swung 

overhead, 
But when th' words begun t' come they never would 

get sed. 
Me fishin' pole slid 'cross th' pool ; we seen th' track 

it made — 
Miandy laughed t' see it go; Miandy laughed an' 

staid. 



114 



I couldn't tell y'u how it was, but when th' stars 

cum out 
Me an' Miandy sure had found enough t' talk about, 
An' when we circled roun' th' pool no fishes flapped 

on land 
But, tighter than a fishin' pole, I held Miandy 's 

hand! 



THE PENITENT MONK 

When the hands of the clock in the old village 

tower 
Were pointing to twelve, that mysterious hour, 
In a dim, grisly nook of a musty old cell 
Where imps by the myriad had chanted their spell-^ 
At least so the story was told and retold — 
Not counting out beads, as good monks of old, 
But grinning and chuckling, and in a good humor, 
A monk, sacked and shaven, was eying his supper. 

Now out of the rock, for all safety repletest, 
This cell has been hewn, the darkest, the deepest; 
Indeed, once a cavern of no small dimensions — 
Being hewn out and battered by man's good inven- 
tions — 
It had taken the shape of quite a long oval, 
With nooks and with crannies suspiciously novel, 
Being far enough under the earth's vegetation, 
With but little or none of the prized ventilation, 
It may be supposed from varied effluvia 
The air was quite far from being salubrious. 
Far away, through a crevice, with unending struggle, 
An ill-fated water-stream oozed with a gurgle, 
And for slime and for mould no match habitation 
Had been sought for and found since the first gen- 
eration. 

115 



The artist who chiseled in holy devotion, ..-„ 
The bust of St. Catherine would have felt a com- 
motion 
Among his dry bones could he have thrown but a 

shimmer 
Of light on that brow, near which many a sinner 
Had hardened his knees into knobs with long kneel- 
ing, 
With his beads in his hands and his eyes on the 

ceiling, 
And who knows but the bones which stand out 

gaunt and wiry — 
Skull, framework, long fingers, looking down from 

its eyrie — 
May be of that gentleman all that sustains 
A likeness on earth of his mortal remains. 
Be that as it may, we have no means to discover 
That flesh once hung on those bones as a cover. 
Suffice it to know that an unworthy sinner, 
Who cared for his soul far less than his dinner, 
Had lived in transgression till caged in this dungeon, 
And hearing of soul's food far more than of lunch- 
eon, 
Had been found at last with but skin on his bones 
At the feet of St. Catherine as stiff as the stones. 

But while we are making this seeming digression 
And looking aside at both bones and transgression, 
Our friend of the cowl of his coveted morsel 
Had lost not a fragment; by platter and wassail, 
With pleasure entire sniffing odors most savory, 
Not a whit disconcerted by missel and breviary, 
With many a chuckle and many a gurgle, 
And many a hitch at his time-beaten girdle, 
Poking at embers with odd gestulations, 
Blinking aside at the cell's elongations; 
116 



Winking and blinking at passage and archway — 
Hands on his ears, and body bent half-way 
Laughing and twitching to sallowest crinkles 
All of the sets of his sinewy wrinkles — 
What cares he now that the great Combination 
Doomed him to days of profound tribulation? 
Wassail and bacon, fagots and tapers 
Swallow most suddenly murkiest vapors; 
Tapers and fagots, bacon and wassail — 
Knew he not well how to stock up his castle? 
Knew he not well, in case of transgression, 
How little St. Catherine had in possession, 
How little hospitable odor ascended 
The nostrils of sinners whose knees should be bended 
In deepest contrition to meet the exactions 
Of heaven and earth, spite of spasms, contractions- 
Should be bended for weeks in most utter oblivion 
Of nature's requirements of wassail and bacon? 
How he tittered and shook as he lightly exulted 
In thoughts of his shrewdness and how it resulted; 
How, praying to kneel at the shrine of St. Cath- 
erine — 
With looks which declared him a penitent's pat- 
tern — 
Had smuggled successfully amidst robes sacerdotal 
A reserve most surprising when taken in total. 

If he threw himself backward, then bent himself 

double ; 
Stood on right foot, on left foot without any trouble, 
And giggled right out in the keenest derision 
Remembering the majesty of the decision 
Dooming him days in the earth's dreary bowels, 
With naught but a crust for his sin-tainted jowels — 
Who wonders ? I take it few in his position 

117 



Would have glowed a whit less at his lucky condi 
tion. 

Now, steamy and savory, he places his platter, 
Afresh from the embers, without any clatter, 
Far back in the deepest of hidden recesses, 
Bends low over one of the daintiest messes, 
Lifts up to his lips the bumper of wassail — 
But a stir on the air! — a clink and a rustle, 
A rattle of wires, a clinking of bones — 
He starts as a hare at the ominous tones; 
He starts and, forgetting the wassail and bacon, 
Forgetting the bumper his lips had not taken; 
Forgetting the tassel-topped heads on their pillows — 
Sleeping waters of power easily lashed into billows — 
He sets up a howl, a yell so enthralling, 
A hoarse hooting howl so truly appalling, 
That all, from the Abbot to every small brother 
Came bumping and jostling, upsetting each other! 
There, front of the statue of many crustations, 
Devout as devoutest, with deep protestations, 
Deep crushed in despair as the down-hunted brocket, 
Kneels the man sacerdotal; each eye from its socket 
Out starting and staring, the wildest of Gorgons, 
Writhing and turning in endless contortions, 
While off in the nook where the embers are glow- 
ing — 
Which some imps must be keeping alive with their 

blowing — 
Stands the bumper of wassail his lips have not taken, 
The platter that smokes with the far-smelling bacon. 



If man, or if woman hath had the great pleasure 
Of passing the night with a skeleton-treasure, 
And suddenly seen, amid clinking of wire, 
The creature step down and draw up to the fire — 
118 



Draw up with a caution, a slowness of pace 
That many might take for a species of grace — 
Pray need it be told to that woman or man 
Why the pewter mug dropped from the merry 

monk's hand, 
When they hear that the bones at the end of the cell 
Walked leisurely down, and pray who may tell 
But the bones were the bones of the good man-of-art 
Who sculptured St. Catherine, the gentle-at-heart 
Who, catching afar, by the taper's low glimmer, 
A glimpse of the face of that most sainted sinner, 
Was stirred — all his bones — and came forth apace 
To make it quite sure that it was the same face? 



LIFE'S RAPTURE-TOUCH 

Aye, exiled Soul, thy sphere is yet beyond thee ; 
Thy hour of transport lingereth, but is yet to come ; 
Thy yearning for soul-contact is resultant 
Through absence from thy home. 

A shield of clay holds thee apart, though yearning 
For closer spirit-touch, here in this stranger-land, 
But on beyond thy rapture-hour awaits thee 
Amidst the ransomed band. 

Thy hour shall come, if on thy homeward journey 
Thy faith to Soul-creative holds thee true — 
In Soul-transcendant, exiled spirit's yearning 
Life's rapture-touch shall know. 



119 



I LONG FER ME OL' LOVE AGAIN 

It seems as if things is rejoicin' — 

Th' bees an' birds, an' th' like — 
As if nothin' ye see was lonesome like me, 

A settin' here tired on th' Pike. 

Th' road is so awful sunny, 

Th' miles is so fearful long 
An' bein' so lame, I'm not jest th' same 

As when I was limber an' strong. 

I've traveled it many's th' mornin', 
Little Liza snugged up on me arm — 

I'd tote her along, fer th' fear was strong 
That somethin' might bring her to harm. 

I never was lonesome in them days, 
Wi' her little head here on me breast; 

Whatever went rough I was jolly enough, 
As gay as a bird on its nest. 

But Liza forgits she was lovin' : 

Forgits how we used to be ; 
Afore Liza growed up I hed company enough, 

But she's kinder growed off like from me. 

I set there alone in th' attic, 

A-darnin' an' darnin' th' holes, 
An' I long for a face in th' shadered oV place, 

An' ME EYES IS LIKE BURNIN' hot coals. 

I go to th' winder, there's no one t' see ; 

I listen a while on th' stair; 
Sure Liza's below but I know if I go 

Liza'll frown, fer some neighbor is there. 
120 



I jest set an' look when Liza's about, 

An' long fer a touch of her hand, 
An' sometimes I reach out, but she turns quite 
about — 

She forgits she don't understand. 

Liza's got more t' love; she forgits me — 

I didn't set down t' complain, 
But think what y' like, sittin' here on th' Pike 

I long fer me ol' love again ! 

I'm lonesome an' tired, an' nowhere I look 

Is there anyone ever t' care 
How tired I may be wi' this ol' crippled knee, 

On th' Pike or th' ol' attic stair. 



121 



I DREAMED A DREAM „ 

I dreamed, and, on a mother's breast, I saw a child 

To all sweet subtilties beguiled 

By looking in a face that bent above, 

And by the spelling of the words of love. 

Again I looked, when years had flown — the two? 

The mystery of comradeship they knew; 

The power that fetters life to life, and merges souls 

In one pursuit of fantasies and goals; — 

The mother's soul — as through a door a-jar — 

Was seen within the boy to flame — the re-birth of a 

star, 
And this, aye this, surged onward it would seem 
Across the vista of my dreami; 
"Mothers of men! hold close thy high estate! 
All that Time doth conceive of as the nobly great 
Is thine to give the race ; mar not thy crown 
By blindly stooping too low down 
To ideals never meant to be 
Thy passport to felicity." 



122 



TO LIVE IS TO BE GLAD TO-DAY 

Though storms may beat and elements conflict; 
Though Sorrow hath its shadowed part to play; 
Life breweth sweets like some fair garden-heart 
That breweth every day. 

The little brooks go singing through the grass; 
The sky is blue — so blue toward the sun! 
And sunbeams weave their colors through the mists 
When day is done. 

The bird's wings are of azure and of gold ; 
The forests dream their dreams midst crimson dye; 
Oh there are always wondrous, dear, fair things 
Where Life's strange pathways lie! 

To breathe day's breath ; to drink the sunlit air ; 
To hear life's music throbbing out its strain, 
Is life's ecstatic heritage to know 

Though joys be braised and slain. 

To feel the impulse when soul calleth soul; 
To feel the touch of spirit, though through clay; 
To live, if even midst the clash of spears 
Is to be glad to-day. 



•12.1 



THE FAIRER WAY " 

I will think well of him; his heart I cannot see. 
The words are dark, as they are given to me, 
But can I know just how he came to do 
This unexplained, strange thing that Gossip holds to 

view ? — 
What really bright, fair deed his thought had pic- 
tured out; 
What was the thing he sought and dreamed about? 
How can / know whence came the severing blow 
That wrenched him far aside and laid his venture 

low, 
Or, if he sinned? I will believe him true; 
Why should I choose the dark, cold, heartless hue 
To cast upon him, when the God who weighs all 

dross 
May see in him a soul unstained, though shadowed 
by a cross? 



124 



MY HAUNTED GARDEN 

I look across my garden 

And then close my eyes and dream ; 
I see the trail across the hill 

And seem to catch the gleam 
Of warriors moving to a fray, 

And hear a battle-cry, 
Or see a brave with bended bow 

Go slowly skulking by. 

I see, between the tall tree-shafts, 

The mounds of long ago, 
Where warriors, worsted in the fray, 

Lie midst the wreaths of snow. 
I hear a step and mark the trail; 

See arrows speeding by, 
Or hear some Indian mother near 

Croon out a lullaby. 

Some figure bends, as of old, 

Above my Indian-stone, 
To grind the maize for porridge, 

Or I hear the undertone 
Of some weird love-song that he sings; 

See rapture in his eye, 
As he grinds the corn, yet dreaming, 

Looks off toward the sky. 

I look across and try to catch, 
Through trees that skirt the way, 

The height where watch-fires used to flash 
Their signals far away! 



125 



Beside me lie the banner stone; ■-«■ 

The arrows that have slept, 
Until a little while ago, 

Where women bowed and wept, 
And warriors stained the soil with blood 

Just where my wild flowers low 
Go twining wreaths across the dust, 

When Spring calls off the snow. 
I see the evening camp-fires' 

Weird shadows where it gleams, — 
Oh, the past comes drifting to me 

Midst low rhythms, in my dreams. 



126 



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